I should leave. I know I should leave. But I stay kneeling there beside her bed, watching her sleep, my hand still caught in hers. Wondering when exactly this happened. When she went from being just the nanny to being someone I think about constantly. Someone whose smile can change the entire trajectory of my day. Someone who makes me want to believe in second chances.
The guilt is still there, sharp and persistent. But underneath it, buried deep, is something that feels dangerously like hope. Like maybe, just maybe, it's okay to want this. To want her.
"Evie would kick my ass for waiting this long," I whisper to my sister's ghost, to the memory of her that lives in every corner of this house. "She'd tell me I'm being an idiot. That life is too short to hide from happiness just because I'm scared of losing it again."
The words hang in the air, and I wait for the guilt to crush me. But it doesn't. It just sits there, heavy but bearable, coexisting with the hope that's starting to bloom despite my best efforts to contain it.
I finally force myself to stand, to gently extract my hand from Amelia's grip. She makes a small sound of protest but doesn't wake, just burrows deeper into the blankets. I watch her for one more moment, committing the image to memory, this woman who's somehow managed to make our broken house feel like a home again.
Then I turn and walk out of the room, pulling the door closed behind me with a soft click.
The hallway is dark, but I can see light spilling from under Wyatt's door. I start to head toward my own room, exhausted and emotionally wrung out, but Wyatt's door opens before I can pass it.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a knowing smirk on his face. "Playing Amelia's white knight?"
I bristle immediately, defensive in a way that probably proves his point. "She fell asleep on the couch with the kids. I carried them all to bed. That's not being a white knight, that's just being decent."
"Uh huh." The smirk doesn't fade. "And the fact that you stood in her doorway for five full minutes watching her sleep? That's just being decent too?"
Heat floods my face. "I wasn't... I didn't stand there for five minutes."
"You absolutely did. I was coming back from the bathroom and saw you. Looked like you were having some kind of internal crisis."
I was having an internal crisis, but I'm not about to admit that out loud. I'm about to tell him to mind his own business, to stop reading into things that aren't there, but Wyatt speaks first.
"I think we're all affected by her." His voice is softer now, more serious. "Dylan was right that she's a bundle of sunshine when she opens up. The kids are happier, the house feels alive again, and all three of us are walking around like lovesick idiots pretending we're not."
The blunt honesty disarms me. I lean against the wall across from him, suddenly too tired to maintain my defenses. "And what happens if we let her in?" The question comes out quieter than I intended, vulnerable in a way I usually avoid. "What happens if we let ourselves want this and it all falls apart? The kids have already lost so much. We've all lost so much. I don't know if we can survive losing someone else."
Wyatt is quiet for a moment, studying me with those blue eyes that see too much. "What happens if we don't?" he finally asks. "What happens if we let fear keep us from something good? Have you seen her talking to Evie?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"She talks to Evie's pictures sometimes. When she thinks no one is around." Wyatt's expression softens, something like wonder crossing his face. "I caught her doing it the other day. She was dusting the living room and she picked up that photo of Evie with the kids, the one from Riley's third birthday. And she just... started talking to it. Telling Evie about Riley's progress with reading, about Isaac's new obsession with trucks. Just little updates, like Evie was still here to hear them."
My chest goes tight, emotion welling up so fast I have to swallow hard against it. "What... what does she say?"
"Little things. How well the kids are growing up. How proud Evie would be of us for holding it together." Wyatt's voice is rough now too, thick with feeling. "None of the other nannies did that. Raven certainly never did that. But Amelia, she acts like Evie still has a place here. Like honoring her memory is just as important as taking care of us."
I close my eyes, fighting back the burn of tears. Of course she does. Of course Amelia, with her soft heart and her careful kindness, would think to include Evie in the daily life of this house. Would understand that we need to remember her, to keep her present, to make sure the kids know their mother even if she's gone.
"I just don't want you to think that this, if it happens, is wrong." Wyatt continues. "We loved Evie. We'll always love Evie. But she's gone, Hunter. And we're still here. And maybe, just maybe, we're allowed to find something good in the wreckage."
The words settle over me like a blanket, warm and uncomfortable in equal measure. Part of me wants to accept them, to let myself believe that wanting Amelia doesn't make me a terrible person. But the guilt is still there, whispering that it's too soon, that Evie deserves more loyalty than this.
"And what does Silas think?" I ask, because I need to know I'm not alone in this confusion. "About all of this?"
Wyatt's smile is wry. "He's terrified it could blow up in our faces. But he also watches her like you do, like he can't quite look away. Like he's memorizing her in case she disappears."
"I do not watch her like that," I protest, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
"You absolutely do." Wyatt laughs, the sound quiet in the dark hallway. "But we all have our thing. You watch her when you think no one's looking. Silas brings her tea like it's some kind of sacred ritual. And I, apparently, find any excuse to touch her even though I know I should keep my hands to myself."
The admission makes something in my chest loosen. We're all in this together, all struggling with the same want and guilt and fear. Somehow that makes it feel less overwhelming. Less like I'm betraying Evie by myself and more like we're all trying to find our way forward as a pack.
"Come on," Wyatt says, pushing off from the doorframe. "I think we need to figure out dinner. I'm starving and you look like you haven't eaten since breakfast."
He's not wrong. I can't actually remember if I ate lunch today. The construction site chaos consumed most of my attention, and by the time I thought about food it was already time to head home.
